The Guilty Ones
by Oxymoronic Alliteration
Summary: When Tim is haunted by the death of a naval officer Ziva tries to help him see that he cannot blame himself. Written for the NFA You Look Like You've Seen a Ghost Challenge and Angst Challenge.


She was standing at the foot of the bed. She was naked, the way they had found her, with a painfully red mark around her neck. Her skin was deathly pale, though perhaps that shouldn't have been so surprising. Where her sparkling green eyes had once been were black orbs filled with loathing and anger. They were directed at him.

Tim scrunched his eyes closed, hoping that she would be gone when he opened them…_if_ he opened them. He felt like a child, cowering beneath his sheets for fear that the monster in the closet or monster under the bed would pounce at any moment. When he was a child he was sure that his blankets were some kind of armor that could protect him from the things that crept in the darkness.

This was far worse than any childhood monster and he knew that his sheets and blankets couldn't protect him now.

"Liar!" He winced as she shouted it. "You liar! Everything you told me was a lie!"

"Please," he protested feebly, "I…I told you I was sorry…I didn't mean for it to happen."

"But it _did_ happen! It happened to me the way it happened to Lindsay." She sneered at him. "Did you tell her the same thing you told me? Did you promise her that she would be safe and that this monster would be found before he could strike again? Did you take her out, pretending you actually cared about her only to forget about your promise?"

"I never met her…she was only the second one." He gulped, trying not to remember the images of women. Women lying naked on their kitchen floors, with their eyes open, staring up into eternity. All had the same mark around their neck where the rope had been wrapped, tightened more and more as they struggled, until they finally went limp and were tossed carelessly to the side like a piece of trash. "We didn't know yet that we were dealing with a serial rapist."

This did not placate her. She walked toward him. Tim pressed his back down into the mattress, wanting to sink through it. "I trusted you. When I broke down at the sight of her…my friend lying there…you rushed over to me. I thought you were just a kind person, but now I know you just saw a woman who was vulnerable…who you could move in on in her state of weakness."

"It wasn't like that…"

"You said you'd find him before he could strike again. You lied to me."

"No," he said softly.

"You used the situation to manipulate me."

"No," he repeated, a bit louder now.

"You are just like all of the men I've met. You get what you want and then don't give a crap about what you leave behind."

"No!" He was shouting now. "No, it's not true! I did care about you! I did care and I did want to keep you safe…keep you all safe…" The memories of the women flashed through his mind. They were all lying there, looking up at him with the same look of contempt. He had failed them. "I tried…I tried my best…"

"Your best wasn't good enough."

"No…no it wasn't…"

After two women had been raped and murdered with the same M.O., the team recognized they very likely had a serial rapist and murderer on their hands, preying on female naval officers. It had started with Georgette Larson, found raped and murdered in her kitchen. The team hadn't been able to start much of an investigation before Lindsay Weiss had been similarly found. Neither had any connection other than the Navy.

"I can't think of anyone who could want to harm her, Agent McGee," said a very shaky Bridget Robson. Robson had known Lindsay since the two of them signed up for the Navy and the two had become close friends over the years. "She was a very friendly person," Bridget had confided when Tim had talked to her. Her face was pale, her eyes red. Tim felt for the poor woman and, he was slightly ashamed to admit (considering she was currently grieving), he was a bit attracted to her.

"I understand this must be hard for you, Ms. Robson. If you think of anything, no matter how insignificant you may think it is, please call me." He handed her his number, hoping that she would call for other reasons.

She nodded. "Thank you, Agent McGee. I'm just starting to get afraid now, too."

"Don't worry," he assured her, "we will find this bastard." He had never before used profanity in front of a woman, but he doubted she would take offense to him using the word in this case. "In the meantime, though, try not to go out alone, be careful when opening your door, and if you feel scared, just call me."

And so she had called him, though not completely out of fear. Tim was pleased to find that the attraction had been mutual and wasted no time in setting up a date for the two of them. "Not only will I feel safe, but I'll be having a date with an attractive and intelligent man," she had told him on the phone when she agreed to meet for dinner the next night. The date would be the first of many dates that would take place during the investigation and it would be the starting point for Tim's increasing feelings for Bridget. It would have been almost wonderful if the perpetrator weren't still out there preying on young women.

Next had been Maggie Plessy, followed by Faye Higgins, and then Alice Hennessy. The man was keeping one step ahead of them and it had Gibbs enraged. "Anticipate!" he had reminded them. "Try and get into this bastard's head! Try to figure out what he would do next!"

They'd had their big break when one of the fingerprints found at the Hennessy crime scene was matched to Walter Rooney, a former Petty Officer who had received a dishonorable discharge after he was accused of sexual assault on a female Petty Officer. He was brought in immediately.

Rooney, of course, denied the allegations, claiming he and Hennessy had known each other long before either went into the Navy. He admitted that he had been guilty of sexual assault, but had been seeking help for it. It did not dissuade Gibbs. "We'll need a DNA sample. If you do not wish to give on voluntarily, I'm sure I can get a warrant in a matter of minutes."

In the observation room, Tony, Tim, and Ziva looked on in satisfaction, convinced that they had gotten their man. The pieces fit together so perfectly, there couldn't be any other explanation.

The next day, while Rooney was still in custody, Bridget Robson was found dead in her kitchen. Naked. Strangled. Eyes open, looking up. Abby called when they arrived at the scene. Rooney's DNA didn't match. They had been wrong.

"I'm sorry," Tim said over and over. "I'm so sorry."

"Sorry can't bring me back. It can't bring any of us back." She continued to look down at him, still angered. "What's funny," she said with a cold, mirthless smile, "is that he's still out there, hunting down his next victim. You can't even stop him."

"If…if you could tell me anything, it may help."

"I have to do your job for you?" She backed away from his bed in disgust. "I've already told you. He crept up behind me and grabbed me, knocking me unconscious. When I came to I was blindfolded. I couldn't see anything." She returned to her place at the foot of his bed. "Look at you, lying in bed. I'll bet it's nice and warm for you. It's too bad it's so cold for me. I'll never know the warmth of a bed again."

Tim, in fact, felt like he was freezing, even as he lay there with his comforter pulled up to his chin. He was afraid, though, that if he told her this it would only anger her more. Instead, he removed the pillow that his head was on and placed it lightly over his face. It was stuffy, but this way he couldn't see her anymore; he couldn't see those hollow eyes as they stared at him, blaming him.

"Coward!" she spat out. "You'll cover your eyes to avoid the sight of me. Can't bear to think that you did this?" There was a pause. "You can still hear me. I know you can still hear me," she said. Her tone was softer this time.

It took everything he had inside for Tim to not stick his fingers in his ears and begin speaking or singing loudly, like a child trying to ignore an annoying sibling. He kept the pillow over his face and lay there, hoping that she would go away. "Please…" he whispered.

She gave a humorless laugh. "That's what I said to him. Do you know what he did when I begged him?" She didn't wait for Tim to reply. "He laughed. He said begging only made it more fun."

"Does it make it more fun for you?" Tim asked. "Does seeing me like this, hearing me beg you the way you begged him…does it satisfy you? Are you content?"

"I don't know that I can ever be content again, Timothy. My face will never smile. My eyes will never sparkle. I'll never laugh. Never again."

There was a knock at the door. Tim lay still, not wanting to remove the pillow and face her. The knocker, though, was persistent and Tim realized whoever it was not going away anytime soon. Tim carefully removed the pillow and peeked out. Nothing. She wasn't there. Had she ever been there to begin with?

Tim trudged to the door, arms wrapped around his torso. It was still so cold. "Who is it?" he mumbled as he pressed his ear against the door. He was in no mood for visitors. "What do you want?"

There was a short pause before a familiar voice spoke up. "It's us, Probie. We want to talk."

Tim stood still, his hand resting on the door knob. Did he want them to come in? Did he want to see them? He glanced back over his shoulder, wondering if she was still there. No ghosts here.

"McGee, I can pick your lock if you do not open the door," Ziva called out. "You cannot simply hide away forever."

The door swung open. In the doorway was Timothy McGee, bags under his eyes, skin pale, body shivering. In the hall were Tony DiNozzo and Ziva David, looking with sympathy at their harried co-worker. He stepped to the side, indicating that they were welcome to enter, and they slipped past him into the dark and dreary apartment.

"Still haven't found the time to hire an interior decorator?" Tony joked in a feeble attempt to lighten the mood. Tim didn't smile, nor did he frown. He stayed expressionless. "Why are you shivering, McGee?"

"It's cold."

"It's like ninety degrees in here. How could you possibly be cold?"

Tim shrugged. "It's cold," he repeated, further wrapping his arms around himself. "She makes it cold, I think."

"Who, McGee?"

"Bridget Robson."

Ziva and Tony exchanged glances. "We know you cared for her very much, McGee," Ziva said softly. "But you cannot blame yourself for what happened."

"She blames me. She said so."

"McGee, she's dead," Tony reminded him. "She can't say anything. It's all in your head."

At that she once again appeared, this time standing behind Tony and Ziva. She didn't say anything, but her face was still frozen in anger. "Y-yes she can, Tony. She does. I can see her."

"You see her in your mind, Probie. You see her the way we found her. You subconsciously blame yourself so your mind is playing tricks on you. She isn't there and she isn't speaking to you."

"Yes she is!" Tim cried. "She hates me…she hates me and rightfully so. I lied to her."

"You did not lie, McGee," Ziva insisted soothingly, but to no avail. Tim was breathing heavily, gasping for breath. Ziva sat him down in a chair. "Breathe, McGee," she ordered, gently rubbing his back.

"She…hates…me…" he panted. He continued looking down at the floor until Ziva's hands gently took his face and lifted it so he was facing her. He closed his eyes. He leaned into her touch. Her hands were so warm and brought a much needed relief to the chilled air.

"Tony…leave us alone. Please." Tony looked uncertainly at Ziva, but he didn't ask any questions. He figured it was best not to dispute the issue with her, especially not in front of Tim. He nodded as he slowly walked out of the apartment.

Ziva knelt before the young, shivering agent, her hands still cupping his face. "Timothy," she said softly, "I have seen much death in my life; far too much death." He tried to look away, but she held firm. "I have known regret and guilt. I have known sorrow and grief. It is no way to live one's life."

"Maybe I shouldn't live, then."

"Do not say such a thing," Ziva ordered.

Tim closed his eyes. "I see them…I see them all looking up at me. I see her most of all. She is looking at me so scornfully…" He trailed off, grimacing as he thought about her.

"I recall one day when I was almost sixteen." Tim didn't look up or give any indication that he was listening, but Ziva slid down to the floor so that she was sitting beside his chair. "My friend, Sara, and I had met at a movie theater. We were going in when I noticed a an attractive boy passing by. Sare encouraged me to speak to him while she waited inside and so I did, telling her I'd join her soon." Ziva paused as she remembered the day. It had been early June and very warm. There were many people walking the streets and she had staggered through the crowd to get to him. "The boy and I were talking for a long amount of time. I realized that Sara had been waiting inside for me for almost fifteen minutes, so I bid him goodbye." Again she paused, not quite sure how to describe it. "I can never remember if I saw the explosion before I heard it or if I heard it before I saw it…but there it was. The theater was in flames…the unfortunate site of a suicide bomber." She looked at Tim somberly. He seemed to be listening. "Sara was among those who died and for weeks I agonized over it. I would replay it in my head, thinking that it was I who put her there, that I should have not left her to speak with that boy."

"But Ziva, if you had gone in with her you'd have been killed as well."

"Yes, but one who is grieving and guilt-ridden rarely thinks with such logic, McGee. As far as I was concerned her death was my fault."

"Did you…did you see her?"

Ziva let out a long exhale, her eyes closed. "Many times. She would stand there, her body charred from the flames. I was unable to get a proper sleep for almost two months."

"Did you feel cold when she was around?"

"No, quite the opposite. I felt as though she was bringing the flames with her and I would grow increasingly hot. My bed was soaked in sweat every night."

And so the two sat in silence, each recalling their own ghost of guilt. Tim thought about Bridget's hollow eyes while Ziva recalled Sara's horribly burned face. Her head fell against Tim's knee and his hand went instinctively to her head, cradling it in as though he could somehow expel the ghost of Sara and any memory of it from the woman's mind. Tim's body shivered with the chilly stare of Bridget and Ziva's forehead glistened with sweat from the harsh flames surrounding Sara.

"When does it get better?"

"I cannot say that it gets better, really. It only gets less bad." She sat up and rolled back on to her knees. "You cannot blame yourself, though, McGee. You cannot let the guilt play with your mind. You must know that you were not responsible for her death."

Tim looked up. "She's still there," he told her as he watched the woman staring at him. "It didn't work."

"She will be there for some time," Ziva told him. "And she may resurface now and then, even once you have stopped feeling guilty." Her eyes were focused over Tim's shoulder where a charred ghost stood watching her.

Their hands grasped each others and held strong. Their eyes locked with a mutual understanding and sense of empathy.

* * *

When Ziva exited the building Tony was leaning against the car, hands shoved in his pockets. He looked up as he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. "How did it go?" There was no mistaking the look in Ziva's eyes. It was a forlorn look, one that indicated that much had been said after he left. But Tony wasn't about to pry. He knew when personal business should remain personal.

"McGee will be fine," she assured him. "He and I talked. He will be fine."

As they slipped into the car, Tony couldn't help but notice that Ziva was sweating profusely. "I'll turn up the AC," he offered, switching it up to full blast.

"Thank you, Tony," Ziva said softly, though she knew no amount of air conditioning was going to help her right now. She glanced in the rearview mirror and, as she suspecting, caught sight of the horribly burnt ghost. Sara's skin was almost completely burnt off and her eyes were little more than white globs stuck in hollow sockets. Flames lapped around her, though they did not seem to be affecting anything other than Sara.

Ziva leaned her head back, closing her eyes. Tonight was going to be a restless one.

**AN: **Thanks for reading! As always, reviews are appreciated!


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